


sore must be the storm

by ashers_kiss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3408686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems that quiet moments, opportunities to relax tense muscles and simply breathe, come even more infrequently these days.  And so Cullen is going to appreciate each and every one that they are afforded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sore must be the storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yunuen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yunuen/gifts).



> A (late) birthday present for yun, with her Inquisitor and Cullen, because she's had a rough year and I thought she deserved something special. ( _And_ she passed her driving test! _And_ got a job today. Because clearly she's _awesome_. *shakes pompoms*)
> 
> Well, she _does_ deserve special, but this probably isn't it, because I don't know the games at _all_ beyond fannish osmosis, so I don't blame anyone who decides to backbutton out of this now.
> 
>  _Huge_ amount of thanks to [littleblackdog](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/littleblackdog), who was infinitely patient and helpful - _more_ than, taking the time out to give me amazingly detailed background on these characters and their histories, and answering all my stupid questions - and [amine-eyes](http://amine-eyes.tumblr.com), who looked over this without knowing the fandom herself. Any mistakes are my own doing, not theirs.
> 
> Title from [Hope is the thing with feathers](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171619) by Emily Dickinson. (You're all just lucky I didn't go with Robert Frost. It fit _so well_ , too.)

It seems that quiet moments, opportunities to relax tense muscles and simply breathe, come even more infrequently these days. And so Cullen is going to appreciate each and every one that they are afforded.

Like this one, when the candles burn low and Evey lies beside him, resting for once, curled up on her side like a child. It’s been…too long since they have been able to spend a night together, longer than Cullen likes to think about. Too long for anything but soft touches and sighed kisses, and yet he feels it like a balm, easing the constant cramping of his insides.

He worries too much, she tells him, with gentle hands cradling his face and the curve of a smirk curling that blessed mouth. He tries to tell her he doesn’t, it’s his _job_ , but she cuts him off every time with a kiss – something innocent, to his forehead, his cheek, his chin when she cannot reach high enough, smiling. It’s enough to make him smile back. To forget, if only for a precious moment.

He _does_ worry. He worries that every decision he makes will bring down disaster on their heads. That each time he sends her out, into danger, into the unknown – or worse, the _known_ – he will never see her again. That he will stumble across her, cleaved in two, torn to shreds, her blood soaking the ground. That his knees will give and he will never get back up again.

That he will fail, despite both her and Cassandra’s faith in him.

Cullen sucks in a breath and lets it go tight in his chest before he exhales, scrubbing a hand down his face. He will not let such thoughts poison this rare time. Not when Evey is here, safe in bed with him ( _their_ bed, she tells him, in a way he would almost dare call _shyly_ , and doesn’t that make his useless old heart skip a beat. There is truth to it though, even he can admit it – there are almost as many of his belongings here now as hers, tucked away as if they belong here. As if he does), breathing easy.

Instead, he reaches out, tracing over her tattoo, the scar slicing over her cheek. He does not wish to wake her, only banish those dire thoughts until dawn, at least.

Then she shifts, murmuring, and Cullen jerks his hand back, cursing himself in the foulest way she has taught him how. (Whatever Varric may think, it is their Inquisitor who could give the sailors a run for their money, not him. The Chantry did not approve of such actions, after all, and he still has much to learn. Evey, though – she seems to _delight_ in creating the most inventive profanities she can manage.) It is too late, though. She is too used to being awoken urgently, and suddenly she is blinking up at him, frowning as she assesses the situation.

When all she sees is him, no doubt looking ridiculously sheepish, her eyes clear, and she smiles, soft and sleepy and still brighter than all the light in the room.

“What _are_ you doing?” she asks. Her voice is rough with sleep, and Cullen won’t pretend to be so good a man that that doesn’t send the slightest jolt through him.

It is a valid question, though he would really rather not tell her he was watching her sleep. He _could_ tell her how she looks in the moonlight, how her eyes are much more beautiful than _both_ moons, but…such things have never gone well for him before.

So instead he says, “You look beautiful,” and prays it will be enough.

Evey arches an eyebrow even as she shuffles closer. “You woke me up to tell me _that_?”

“In truth, I did not mean to wake you at all,” Cullen confesses, and watches her still as the realisation sweeps her face.

She sighs out an, “Oh, love,” and continues to move closer, presses a kiss to the dip of his collarbone. Quite without his permission, his hand slides to curl over her hip, hold her close against him. He feels the brush of her braids at his throat and bites back a shiver. “You need sleep,” she murmurs. Cullen has long stopped expecting the list of reasons _why_ , how they need him with a clear head, how he needs to be at his best – “I will not manipulate you that way,” she’d said, when he asked, fists clenching tight at her sides – so he allows the silence to grow, content to breathe in the almost-sweet scent of her.

Eventually, though, Evey pulls back, enough to push herself up on her elbow as she cards fingers through the hair at his temple. “You should try, love. They won’t come tonight.”

“You don’t know that,” he says, even as he tips his head into her touch. He can feel sleep tugging at the edges of his conscious, at the ache in his bones; the promise of rest, of comfort. The lie.

“I won’t let them,” she says, almost too quiet, and he knows – he _knows_ she wouldn’t, not without his express permission, but he opens his eyes anyway (and when, exactly, had he closed them?). Evey only looks determined, a set to her jaw he knows so well, and somewhere, he is already distinctly aware he has lost this battle. “I’ll wake you,” she whispers, with all the weight of a prayer, a vow he can believe in. “The _second_ that you move, make a noise, I’ll wake you. I’ll watch you, just like you watched me.” She pulls his hand up, up, presses a kiss to his palm without looking away. “I told you I would not leave you to this, didn’t I?”

Cullen reverses their grip, curls his hand over the back of her neck and tugs her down to him. Sometimes, he thinks he can almost see a slight caution when she touches him, as if she expects to be pushed away, and he hates, he _hates_ that he was once someone she could think that of. But there is no such hesitancy in her touch now, as she kisses him back fiercely – protectively, maybe – hands cupping his jaw.

“I don’t deserve you,” he tells her, finally, when they break for air. Evey snorts.

“Bullshit. You’re a terrible judge of your own character, love.” She drops one last kiss on his lips and eases back, just enough that he can’t kiss her again. “Just try. I’m not going anywhere.”

Cullen presses his forehead to her shoulder, and nods, breathing her in. He feels her fingers in the hair at his nape, and he closes his eyes.


End file.
